


Of Small and Unexpected Things

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Becomes Requited, Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Love, M/M, Scars, Unrequited Love, only these two assholes could have mutually unrequited love going on i swear to god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: It’s by accident, the first time John sees them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a part of a vignettes fic I later deleted so a lot of you have probably already read this. But. I think it works better as a standalone, and I fixed it to work with the canon of S4, and John _still_ hasn't seen Sherlock's scars, so. Shrug. Baby Watson features here about as prominently as she does in S4.

It’s by accident, the first time John sees them.

John’s only just moved back in and they’ve only just come back from solving a case: the first case that was all breathless danger and slick wet pavement and two-in-the-morning exhilaration; the first one since all that bad business with Mary and Culverton Smith and Eurus, and John’s face looking far too downturned and complicated and wan; and Sherlock forgets himself.

In his quest for the murder weapon Sherlock’s seen the business end of a rubbish skip and reeks to high heaven. He’s never been particularly modest, so he blithely strips his shirt and trousers in the kitchen, intending to secure them in a bin liner until they can be dry cleaned within an inch of life, and has almost made it to the toilet when he hears a harsh inhale from behind him.

He imagines the rush of air from John’s mouth blows a freezing cold chill over his skin and he hesitates, trapped in tableau, most of the way nude and muscle-tense as he’s ever been.

He knows what this is. He’s never mentioned anything about it, about _them_ to John because he knows what this will be. For all the incomplete sentences, the stilted conversations, the declarations cut off just short of the truth that Sherlock’s had and made over the past year and a half, this isn’t any of those. He’s never wanted to broach this because once this happens, he’ll not be the man John thinks he is.

Sherlock has rather consciously avoided catching the back half of his body’s reflection on any surface, since coming home. He doesn’t want to think about it. His weakness, the bits of his body that were stolen from him and returned less than whole. He doesn’t want to be reminded of the hands that have been on him, hands that weren’t even harsher than his own thoughts some days and yet, somehow, he can’t abide the evidence that they were there. He most certainly can’t abide John knowing of all that; and yet.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice breaks a little over the second syllable, and Sherlock shuts his eyes against the realisation that this is fitting, somehow. That John has seen that he is broken, and now this is how John says his name.

“I’ll just have a shower,” Sherlock answers, pleased with the steadiness of his own voice. He pulls the door open and shuts himself inside before John has time to say another heavy, fractured word.

Sherlock turns the water up as hot as he can stand, lets is sluice down his back and imagines he can feel every wound reopening, imagines the water mingling with his blood and the dirt and sweat that caked his body, the filth he never seemed to be able to rid himself of while he was away. He feels it even now, sometimes; when he hears a particular sound, smells a particular scent. John’s seen his scars: add that to the list, then.

He takes as much time as he can at the sink afterward; he shaves, cleans his teeth, stares at himself for so long his face no longer makes any kind of sense. He waits it out.

When he exits through the door leading into his bedroom John’s still there, has moved just inside his bedroom door frame. Sherlock didn’t bring anything in with him and so he’s standing there, a bit awkwardly, towel slung round his hips and arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll need to—”

“Right,” John says. “I’ll just—”

He turns his back to Sherlock and Sherlock moves to his wardrobe to pull out soft cotton pyjamas and a threadbare tee shirt. He doesn’t realise until John’s turning to face him again that the tee shirt was John’s, from before Sherlock was dead.

John’s eyebrows indicate he notices, remembers, but he doesn’t remark. He looks at Sherlock thoughtfully, and Sherlock can’t help but squirm a bit beneath his gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” John says. “It’s not even any of my business. Only I can’t help but assume all that went on when you were—away. And alone. And I just thought maybe you hadn’t ever—that maybe you wanted to. Talk,” he finishes, and though he stumbles over the words, his eyes are unwavering, refuse to leave Sherlock’s face.

“I wasn’t always… as careful… as I perhaps could have been.” Sherlock raises his head, defiant. “They never got anything out of me. I didn’t break. They _didn’t_ break me, no matter how it looks.” His voice begins to wobble and he clenches his jaw to hold the panic at bay. “I’m not—you don’t have to—”

“Jesus, no, Sherlock,” John takes a step forward, holds out a hand but doesn’t look entirely sure what to do with it. “Is that what you think? God, no. No.” He pulls his hand back, takes a breath.

“I did what I had to, John.” Sherlock looks down at his feet, focuses on the cold hardwood beneath his bare toes. “There were things I could not permit to happen, and,” he pulls his shoulders back again, stares at the wall just beyond the top of John’s head. “Needs must.”

“To keep us safe, yeah, I got that. Sherlock, I—” John stops himself. He takes three large strides until he’s close enough for Sherlock to feel the warmth of his body, smell his skin. Then, ever so gently, John takes Sherlock’s face between his hands, rubs his thumbs against Sherlock’s cheekbones, leans up and in and breathes against his face, “ _God_ , you don’t even—”

And then John kisses him, closed-mouthed and hard against Sherlock’s lips and before Sherlock can react John’s pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock’s arms, whispering _thank you_ over and over like a benediction, a revelation, a desperate plea. Like Sherlock himself is some kind of blessing.

John pulls away and his eyes are bright. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Sherlock answers.

“Yeah, I do,” John replies. “I should have asked. I should have wondered. I took it all for granted, what you did. I was so angry, I never thought—” he pauses, rubs at his eyes with forefinger and thumb. “Listen, are you as knackered as I am?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“You must be,” John says, a little fondly, reaches up and touches Sherlock’s cheek again. “Do you think—would you mind if I stayed here? To sleep?”

Sherlock blinks a few times, opens his mouth and shuts it again. “I,” he says, and then stops.

“It’s all right if you don’t… I mean, I could just bring a chair in.” John clears his throat. “I’d just like to be here, but if you don’t want me, you can say so.”

At this, Sherlock is utterly baffled.

“John,” he says slowly, finds his voice has recaptured its solidity, its firmness. “Of course I want you.”

John’s face breaks into the widest, most wonderful smile Sherlock thinks he’s ever seen, warm and bright and almost a little hard to look at, and Sherlock can’t help it, wants to just _see_ , so he leans down and puts his mouth on John’s again, covers John’s lips with his own and presses as carefully as he’s able.

It feels like nothing so much as a miracle when John kisses him back.


End file.
